Sunday, November 8, 2009

November 2009 poems

The Wild Geese

by Wendell Berry

Horseback on Sunday morning,harvest over, we taste persimmonand wild grape, sharp sweetof summer's end. In time's mazeover the fall fields, we name namesthat went west from here, namesthat rest on graves. We opena persimmon seed to find the treethat stands in promise,pale, in the seed's marrow.Geese appear high over us,pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,as in love or sleep, holdsthem to their way, clear,in the ancient faith: what we needis here. And we pray, notfor new earth or heaven, but to bequiet in heart, and in eyeclear. What we need is here.

THIS LONG NIGHTBy Elinor Roberts Hartt

The empty silencethis long nightcan offer no protectionagainst that proudhighriding mysterythe moon's perfection.

A Psalm of Life By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each tomorrowFind us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act, — act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;